A week had passed, and Harry was growing more and more convinced that the OWLs had been mere warm-ups compared to what awaited him now. From the very first day, every class had buried them under heaps of work. In Transfiguration, he'd understood barely half of Professor McGonagall's explanations and only managed to make sense of his notes later, after rereading the textbook. Non-verbal spells were required in practically every subject from day one, and on that front, Harry could proudly say he was ahead of even Hermione—thanks to the intense summer training.
Potions hadn't been brilliant, but they hadn't been disastrous either. They now had it nearly every day, and Harry tried to rely on his intuition as best he could. His success on the first day had given him a boost of confidence. One attempt had ended with a ruined potion; another had gone rather well—though it still fell short of Hermione's flawless recreations of the "official" recipes.
Not that Harry was trying to compete with her. He was quite content with his own progress. Ron had begun to joke that Harry must've caught something from Hermione—his marks in several subjects were now higher than most students'. Flamya wasn't far behind either, which made sense—they were still, to some extent, one and the same person.
Classes consumed them completely and left them exhausted. By the time Harry and Flamya stumbled back to their dormitories in the evenings, they'd usually collapse straight into bed. It was only when the first weekend rolled around that Harry realised his biggest friend—literally speaking—hadn't so much as spoken to them. On the first day, he'd smiled and waved, but didn't seem to have time to come over—and since then, it was as though he were avoiding them. Them being Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
"None of us is taking Care of Magical Creatures this year," Hermione replied when Harry brought it up, her voice carrying a faint note of that familiar instructive tone.
"Oh, right! Of course!" Harry smacked his forehead. How hadn't he realised it? "We were his favourite students…"
"Not just us," Ron added, shaking his head. Clearly, they'd already talked about this. "Nobody's taking CMC in sixth year. He was counting on us… We were always there… really, just for him, not for that daft—"
"It's not a daft subject!" Hermione snapped.
"Well, I wouldn't say that," Ron shot back, raising his voice a little. They'd been bickering more than usual lately—which was saying something. "I still have nightmares about those Blast-Ended Skrewts! And Aragog, of course… Hagrid's my friend, but between you and me, I never enjoyed most of his lessons. Don't know about you, but I only showed up and tried my best for Hagrid."
Ron's ears turned ever so slightly red.
"Ron?! How can you say that?" Hermione looked outraged.
"Oh come on, don't tell me you didn't feel the same sometimes," Ron countered.
They launched into another argument. Deep down, Harry was sure they mostly agreed but simply couldn't bring themselves to admit it. He sat scribbling his Potions essay while his friends carried on—it had become a familiar backdrop. At last, he'd had enough and raised his voice, declaring that they would visit Hagrid, full stop.
But the next week offered no opportunity. Their classes once again left them with no time or energy. Still, Harry began to notice that things were gradually getting easier. The clearest sign was that he no longer needed Hermione's help in most subjects. He and Flamya also started seriously considering forming a mini-D.A. of their own. Snape's lessons were, admittedly, not bad—though Harry would've sooner volunteered to care for Skrewts than say that aloud. Yet, while the material in Defence Against the Dark Arts was definitely useful, it was far from enough for someone destined to face the greatest Dark wizard of the century.
Harry had been waiting for those special lessons Dumbledore had mentioned—but the headmaster seemed to have vanished from the school altogether. It was becoming clear: if he wanted proper training, he'd have to take charge of it himself. The thought began to bother him more and more—if they wanted him to fight Voldemort, why wasn't anyone bothering to prepare him properly? Eagerness without ability meant little. And if all they were counting on was that mysterious "power the Dark Lord knows not"… well, then things looked grim.
He and Flamya talked about it often, but came to no real conclusion—only that their trust in Dumbledore was growing thinner.
After all, Harry had begun the year determined to prepare himself. But from the moment he'd reunited with his friends, that resolve had begun to fade. It was far more pleasant to spend time in the common room—playing chess or chatting with friends or with Flamya—than to do even more studying on top of an already difficult schedule. With effort—and a few metaphorical slaps from Flamya—they resolved to change that. Together, they retrieved a stack of spellbooks from the Room of Requirement.
To his surprise, Harry found it hard to tear himself away once he'd started a serious book on combat spells. The information didn't stick instantly, but he studied it with an intensity that surprised even him. As they say, the hardest part is starting. Meanwhile, he continued training his mental defences. He couldn't claim great success yet—but his mental wall had progressed a lot further. He'd even completed it once, though it hadn't lasted long.
Another week passed. After the Quidditch tryouts, he agreed with his friends that they'd finally go see Hagrid. Oddly enough, the tryouts weren't teeming with applicants. Even last year, when half the team had been knocked out after the first match, there'd been more volunteers. Watching from the stands—some distance from Flamya—Harry wondered if that had something to do with him quitting the team. He was certain that had he stayed on, especially as captain, there would've been no shortage of hopefuls.
The trials didn't even take an hour. Ron remained keeper, Ginny was made Seeker, and though the Beaters and Chasers were new, Katie had settled quickly into her new role as captain. Harry couldn't help but wonder if Quidditch enthusiasm was somehow contagious—passed from one captain to the next. In any case, she didn't seem particularly pleased with her new team and kept casting eloquent looks in the direction of the former Seeker sitting in the stands.
Once Ron was free, the three of them headed to the gamekeeper's hut. Harry had meant to suggest what they might say to their enormous friend—but quickly gave up. Ron was off on a long, impassioned monologue for the twenty-fifth time, recounting every ball he'd saved in detail. There was no stopping him.
The hut was locked, but nearby stood the old Hippogriff—Buckbeak, a.k.a. Witherwings. While Harry and his friends greeted the proud creature, Hagrid appeared. What followed was a long and emotional conversation—starting with practically having to force their way inside the hut, which had always stood open to them before. Then it took more time to thaw the awkwardness between them, but eventually Hagrid began to talk.
Turned out, their absence wasn't really what was bothering him. His old, shaggy, many-legged friend was dying. Age was catching up with the creature… Barely had Hagrid uttered this sorrowful news when he broke into sobs. Hermione immediately rushed to comfort him; Harry followed her lead, a bit uncertainly. Ron, however, looked distinctly queasy—as though trying to banish a particularly vivid memory from his mind.
"How did your visit to our favourite giant go, then?" Flamya asked when she and Harry returned to their room—separately—after lunch.
"Wet," Harry replied, running a hand through his hair. "At first, he did everything he could to show how hurt he was that we'd dropped his class—but the act didn't last long. Aragog's dying," he added, with a mix of sadness and concern.
"Aragog? The one whose family's always ready for a bit of human flesh?" Flamya raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, I'm surprised to hear so much sympathy in your voice. Hagrid crying I can understand—they've been friends for fifty years, and like Ron once said, our Hagrid's got a bit of a blind spot. But you? Before this summer, you weren't exactly friendly with that spider—and for good reason, considering he nearly had you for dinner."
"You're not wrong. And I'm not about to start mourning him. But I do feel bad for Hagrid… Though maybe Grawp will cheer him up." Harry couldn't help but smirk. "Still, Aragog wasn't just a friend. He was a deterrent."
"Come again?"
"Think about it—we know how many children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren Aragog had. What stopped them from spreading out across the forest… or even attacking the school, just following their instincts?"
"Aragog… He said he'd never harm humans out of respect for Hagrid. He also said he forbade the others from touching Hagrid."
"Exactly. And when he dies…"
"So does the prohibition." Flamya frowned. "You're right. That could be bad. Very bad."
"Hagrid's opened Pandora's Box. And what kept it shut is about to die."
"Not great," Flamya agreed quietly. "Not great at all… Anyway, I saw you talking to Professor Slughorn."
"Oh, right! I nearly forgot—he invited me and Hermione to dinner. Said there'd be some 'rising stars' there."
"He invited me too."
"I told him I'd think about it—since I can't exactly show up alone."
"I said the same. You know, I think we should go. From what I understand, Slughorn likes to collect people with talent or potential, and getting to know people like that… can't hurt."
"You're right," Harry said thoughtfully. "Especially for someone like me, who's been handed the role of standard-bearer…"
_____
[Please leave a few reviews and Power Stones]
If you enjoy my work, you can Support me at:
patreon.com/cw/Phoenixfic